


Lion's Den

by OriginalCeenote



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Based on the Mystique solo series, F/F, F/M, Mystique as Leni Zauber, Mystique can turn into ANYTHING, Trigger warnings for violence and some non-con, based on the Sabertooth solo title, reposted from Superstories archive, seriously ANYTHING
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vic and Raven. Blood. Bullets. Claws. Sex. Changes in identity. You get the drift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Building Blocks

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sabertooth and Mystique are the property of Marvel Entertainment and their subsidiaries. I'm borrowing their history for entertainment purposes only, I'm not making any money, and this fic might cause brain tumors and uncontrollable twitching...if so, an antibiotic should clear that right up. Cheers.
> 
> Warnings for violence, nonconsensual and VERY consensual sex, harsh language, torture, and everything but the kitchen sink.

Mystique discovers that Dermafree, the plant that was manufacturing beauty products from her genes wasn't completely shut down. Now, someone's using her genes as the building blocks to create mutant-killing machines. For Mystique, it's still personal.

Coney Island, Brooklyn, early evening:

Forge held the deceptively tiny module in his gloved hand and turned it toward the light glowing from the clip-on work lamp, clamping the wires together with a pair of pliers. He set it atop his pine table and reached for the soldering iron. The stench of burning metals tickled his nose.

The safehouse featured none of the bells and whistles of the Aerie, his carefully secured, state-of-the-art sanctum in Dallas. This was a workshop and a place to cool his heels, and he enjoyed his own company more than anyone else's, ensconced within these walls.

He was free to think. He could create. Nothing stopped him from being himself.

That didn't mean he was free from interruptions...

His boom box bathed the suite in vintage rock and provided him with welcome background noise as he continued to make adjustments to the module, his almond-shaped black eyes squinting thoughtfully as he inserted the needle-fine probe into the lattice of circuitry. A dark shadow flowed smooth as satin over the concrete floor, caressing it soundlessly and blending in with those cast by the ascetic chrome and leather furniture. He hummed to himself, grateful no one would hear him slaughtering old Clapton tunes or give him crap for it.

He was immersed in his task, heedless of the fugitive shadow breaking away from its haven along the wall and sliding toward his stool.

He sighed gustily. "You know the rules, Raven. Get out means 'get out.' What part of 'I never want to see you again' didn't you understand?"

"Awwwww...you're no fun anymore," complained a rich, silky voice from the floor as the shadow undulated and rippled, creating a sight that would have inspired awe and terror to anyone but the Maker. He knew her too well, including her favorite parlor tricks. "You missed me. Fess up."

"Like I miss watching a high colonic in Technicolor."

"Hey, however you get your kink, Forge. Not that I needed the visual, but thanks. Really." She bubbled up, rising like a geyser in slow motion, the obsidian liquid sheathing up and away from the floor as though someone had run the camera backward while filming someone pouring out a bucket. Impenetrable darkness gave way to glowing, indigo blue, warping and shifting into a solid mass. Reptilian yellow eyes regained their form first, as well as an unrepentant smile through a cupid's bow of a mouth. "Aren't you supposed to be the Pentagon's golden boy and gadgets expert? I mean, ANYONE could get in here! Where are all of your fancy genetically-keyed alarms that sense my DNA and biorhythms? No sensors? No lasers? Not even a wall of darts a la Indiana Jones?" She shrugged and held up her hands in a gesture of resignation. "Zip? Nada?"

"You're hardly worth it." He set his module down and removed his small safety goggles, tossing them onto his work table with a slap. She clutched her bosom dramatically, her mouth a moue of someone mortally and unjustly attacked.

"You wound me!"

"Don't tempt me. I haven't been offered a contract for that yet. Give it a week. No, make that a day..."

"Maybe I like tempting you."

"You like wasting my time."

"That's no way to treat an old friend."

"Coercion doesn't count as friendship, Raven."

"Then why are you one of the only people who calls me by my real name? Seems a whole lot warmer and fuzzier than a codename –"

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Want me to flatter you instead?" Mockingly, she shifted into an identical copy of Forge, all the way down to his indignant posture and angry eyes. "You know what they say about imitation, Petunia."

"What do you want?" He turned his back on her, something few people got away with, and shut off his radio with a harsh punch of the power button. This time she sighed before resuming her own form, shifting her weight to one rounded hip and kneading her neck, twining her slender blue fingers through her coppery hair.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't need your help."

"Sure. Famous last words. Tell me another one. I tried to help you, Raven. Time and time again. Look where it got me," he replied quietly, and his eyes pinned her, raking over her and leaving her with that same unsettling frisson of delighted fear that he could see inside of her, seeing things no one else dared fathom about her...

...and still find her wanting.

"I won't hand you the knife to stab me or anyone else in the back. That's what you came for, isn't it?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"Maybe your assumption was wrong a minute ago, then. Back when you left with the scrambler the last time that allowed you to bypass the genetic chip from Homeland Security that allowed them to track you, I had already stayed up all night resetting the security grid around the safehouse."

"So why aren't I a grease spot in the middle of the floor?" She smirked and made a show of running her hands down the length of her body, preening for him as though she hadn't a care in the world.

"There's a failsafe in place. You haven't removed anything in this lab or physically attacked anyone on the premises. The whole room's rigged to detect hostile movements and an increase in your adrenaline. Or mine. Try to take me out – and please, Raven, try your damnedest – and you trip the alarms. A nannite virus I concocted will flood the room. One breath will send it hurtling into your lungs to shock your nervous system, causing paralysis and disrupting signals from your brain, including the ones that tell you how to breathe."

"You're bluffing." Her voice was still cool, her head cocked like a curious puppy's.

"You don't know where the antidote's hidden in the safehouse. And no," he cut her off before she could open her mouth, "it isn't under the mattress."

"Pity." She licked her lips, allowing her hands to ease a slow, sultry path down her neck, over her breasts, garbed in skintight black leather. A muscle in Forge's jaw twitched. "I wanted to look there first."

"Who's after you?"

"Who isn't?"

"Who did you kill?"

"Please! I'm not that one-dimensional, Forge, give me credit for SOME versatility-"

"Who did you kill," he repeated, slowly, as though speaking with a child of four.

"I have some unfinished business," she retorted curtly. "I want back the life that was stolen from me."

"Shit. You're kidding me. Haven't you ever heard the phrase, Raven, 'The best thing about your lousy childhood is that it's over?' So you grew up blue. So what?"

"Okay, A, easy for you to say, and B, fuck off. My childhood...that's a joke. That's not the life I'm talking about. You and the cue ball assigned me to rescue some mutants from that slaughterhouse of a skin care lab called Dermafree? Ring any bells?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't it? We asked you to save a few lives and to put your own selfish needs aside. To step up. You turn it into your own personal grudge match with its CEO. We lose most of the mutants we set out to save, just because they stole a little genetic material-"

"You don't get it, dumb ass. Think about it: How did they get my genetic material? We're not talking someone scraping a few cells from my cheek with a swab, or drawing a little blood. Embryos don't make themselves, Forge."

"Raven..." He scraped his fingers through his glossy black waves, clipped ruthlessly short into a Julius Caesar haircut that heightened the sleek beauty of his firm jaw and sharp cheekbones. A damned handsome face, Raven fumed. Her hands itched to slap it.

It had always been that way between them.

"Sometimes things get away from me. Sometimes I get away from me," she murmured, her gaze softening as she turned away from him, departing on a journey through her turbulent memories without him. "I wasn't always the sharpest tack in the box that you've come to know and love." He smothered a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry of outrage behind her. "When you're young, desperate, you've lost everything, and you have nowhere to go, you fly headlong into the grasp of people who want to take whatever they can get from you. I'm no spring chicken. Don't think I don't know what a privilege it's been to come as far as I have. Surviving this damned long."

"I bet." His tone was pensive and devoid of the sarcasm he'd worn like a cloak when they'd met eyes only minutes ago. The silent question that remained locked between his lips tugged at her.

"Who did I kill, he asks me. Maybe I was the victim this time."

"Maybe," he conceded. He felt some of his tension ease out of his spine as he rose from his work table and strolled to the small, chrome-finished refrigerator in the corner. Bottles inside it rattled as he reached for two cans of soda. "Think quick," he barked, and she caught it left-handed, snatching it deftly from the air without a second thought. Every move she made was fluid; he could appreciate that, not unlike watching the undulating swivel of a cobra scraping along the ground, or crouching to spring at its dinner. "You always think you're the victim."

"Fuck you." She took a tentative sip of her soda, noticing he still stocked it with her favorite, diet Dr. Pepper. "This from the guy who thought he had big enough cojones to kiss Storm's ass."

"The security system's also voice activated, if need be. If I can invent it, I can write the protocols to override it," he reminded her, and this time his eyes were flat black chips. "Talk fast. You won't get out of here the way you came in."

"Tut, tut. Adrenaline, Maker," she sniffed, taking another sip, this time lazily licking away a gleaming, clear brown drop from her plump, shapely upper lip.

Forge felt a tightening below his waist, suddenly aware that his jeans felt too snug. Damn her...

"I had to get out of Winzeldorf. I needed money," she explained. "A warrant was out for the murder of a Count Wagner. Christian Wagner."

"Wagner?"

"Yes," she admitted, staring into her soda can thoughtfully. "My husband. I was married." She stared up at the gasp of surprise and the strangled sound as he nearly choked on his Coke.

"Spirits preserve me...woman, don't say things like that, please. I nearly did a spit-take through my nose...burns like a mother, too! So," he continued, composing himself, "you were wanted for murder."

"Uh-huh."

"Wrong place, wrong time?"

"No. It was justified. I buried him behind the castle. Don't think for one second that was an easy task. Christian was enormous," she griped. "Didn't help that I was in a delicate condition."

"Delicate?"

"Preggers. With Kurt."

"Why am I surprised?" he muttered in defeat, throwing up his good hand in a gesture of helplessness and rolling his eyes. "Pregnant, and still able to kill AND dispose of the body, when most women are just worried about bringing a life INTO the world. What's wrong with you?"

"Don't lecture me about taking lives, Mister I Don't Want to Be a Shaman or a Soldier, I Just Wanna be Mister Fix-It." She set down the soda and grinned down at the contents of his table, including a random assortment of action figures, some vintage, and some gleaned from kids' meals at fast food restaurants. She played with the articulated limbs of a Stormtrooper. "I left the castle after Kurt was born. I was weak. He was blue. Back then, mutants were scarce. It didn't help that he looked like a demon."

"A little respect; he's your son," Forge snapped, defending Kurt with justifiable indignance on his behalf.

"He's also half-demon. I'm just being honest."

"Wonder where he got that half from," Forge quipped, losing interest in his Coke and setting it aside.

"I had no money. Christian owned everything. It was his family's estate. I had no bank books, no jewels that weren't heirlooms, nothing squirreled away. I was barely able to hold my changes, and I was still too weak to find work, even when I tried my luck as a man. Several men. It was a mess. I finally used the feminine assets I was born with, minus my absolutely stunning coloring, and I talked my way into a gentleman's club in Vienna. I worked as a fan dancer and barmaid and earned the odd tip. When I could afford it, I moved into my own little flat. It had a gorgeous view of a brick wall," she scoffed. "One night, a man down front beckoned to me as I was headed backstage from a little torch number I'd grown good at."

"You sing?" Forge found himself impressed.

"I can imitate any voice after hearing five syllables of it," she boasted. "It was a no-brainer. I do a mean Janis, if you ever...y'know, just for shits and giggles? No?" She rolled her eyes at him again and sighed. "Killjoy."

"Who was this man?"

"A young buck named Stein. Helmut Stein. Bragged about his father having different interests in the local businesses, and a few in Sweden. He was unremarkable looking, but he was a big tipper. He wanted more than bourbon on the rocks," she mused. "I took him home. Showed him a good time. He liked blondes."

"So do you," he shot back. Raven quirked a coppery brow at him. "You always synth blondes. They're your favorite."

"They have more fun," she shrugged indifferently.

"Bullshit. I think you're more obsessed with giving people what you think they want. It's always some perceived ideal of physical perfection when you morph. You've never settled for just being a Plain Jane. Not so much as a wrinkle or a pimple," he accused smugly.

"Why be a Raggedy Anne when you can be a Barbie?" She folded her arms across her ample chest, making the tops of her breasts strain against the deep scoop of her snug top. 

The full-spectrum bulbs in his track lights and work lamps highlighted Raven's tall, athletic body, pouring over the curves and swells of muscle and softly rounded flesh, revealed easily by her dark leathers. Her skin glowed a rich indigo, catching the light rather than absorbing it, making her cleavage and the crowns of her cheekbones glow a deep sapphire when she was partially bathed in shadow. She'd never believed him when he tried to convince her that she didn't need to be anyone else for him.

He wanted to fix her, like he wanted to tinker with and fix everything else. Make THIS, she thought sourly, mentally flipping him the bird.

"Stein was fond of me. He came over. We had a few laughs. He filled my ears with a load of Third Reich bullshit..."

"Was he a Neo-Nazi?"

"No. He was an old school Nazi. I know I'm dating myself, but World War II was still finding people being herded out of their homes and businesses when I was in my prime."

"You're still in your prime," he muttered, low enough that she barely heard him.

"Pardon?"

"You're running out of time," he reminded her, checking his watch for emphasis.

"Bastard," she hissed. She leaned back against the only uncluttered counter in his sanctorum, resting on her elbows and letting her stance throw her breasts out for his inspection...again. One lean ankle crossed itself over her shapely calf.

"He never spent the night, except for once," she murmured. "It was a long night. I'd worked nearly a double shift. I didn't feel like throwing him out. I fell asleep," she explained, and Forge felt a wave of pity wash over him, making his gut twist.

"You couldn't hold your change, could you?"

"No," she admitted, clenching her fist in a tight knot. "When I woke up, I was in a cell, and my abdomen was bandaged, still burning from where someone cut into me. I had no clue what happened. All I knew was that I had to get out. They were about to kill me, not just because I was a demoness, but because I was wanted for murder, once they put two and two together from reports given by the residents in Winzeldorf who'd turned out for my angry mob. It wasn't going to be pretty. The next morning, I lured a guard over to the bars and laid it on thick. I asked him what he wanted. Anything. Any face. Any voice. Any body."

"Like what? Marlene Dietrich?"

"No. Sir Laurence Olivier. Turned out he was hiding a few skeletons in his closet, too. I took him out, before he could take himself out. Stole his uniform and the keys to his Jeep, and I was outta there like a bat out of hell."

"And that was it?"

"Eh. I'm a quick healer. I met Irene; turned out she needed a traveling companion. She had two fares paid on a tramp steamer, and I posed as her husband. The rest would be history, if anyone had written it down."

"Bravo," he deadpanned. "So why now? You and Shortpack did what you had to do. No more mutant experiments in the name of beauty. You should be happy."

"I'm not. God only knows what those bastards are doing with me. With my DNA. This last time, it was a so-called cure for psoriasis. Next time, it could be something a lot less noble. And what makes you think they won't stoop to letting some of those embryos be implanted in more mutant 'volunteers' the next time for the purpose of enslaving them? Or experimenting on them again?"

"You almost had me. Then the thought occurred to me that 'noble' is one word that has no business passing your lips."

"I'll let anything I want pass these lips." She leaned away from the counter and stalked him lazily, her gait slow and deliberate as she rested her hands on her hips like a coquette. She still knew how to work it, for an old gal.

"Not interested."

"Then help me."

"You've never really wanted my help."

"I'm not talking about your Good Samaritan bullshit and trying to make me be a good little soldier like you. No more games, Forge. You could've served me up to Homeland Security on a silver platter, but you didn't. You let me have Chuck's little magic inhibitor so they couldn't track me. That says a lot."

"Raven," he warned on a low growl that, she had to admit, sounded very sexy. 

"You like me. You think I'm gooooorrrrgeous," she drawled in her best Miss Congeniality impersonation, drilling her fingertip into her cheek and synthing deep dimples.

"All you're looking for is revenge."

"No. I had my revenge. Dermafree's CEO won't be winning anymore pageants or acting as the company's spokesmodel anymore. They took what was mine. I want it back," she reasoned simply. "Can't blame me if people get hurt when they take what's mine." During their exchange, she'd eased closer to him, shortening the gap between them until she could see his nostrils twitch and watch the tiny pulse in his throat quicken, tightening his Adam's apple.

"You always say that. No one can blame you," he tsked. Black eyes bored into amber, and he held himself stiffly, unwilling to cave, despite the faintly spicy scent of her skin, reminiscent of oranges and cloves, mingling with the musky tang of her leathers. Her hand drifted up, trailing her fingertips along the back of his gloved hand, despite the fact that she knew he couldn't feel it, but his eyes burned with the contact, flicking over her face. She's pricked him, showing up this way after he'd banished her, forbidding any further contact.

He could only hate her after having loved her so much. Common sense had nothing to do with his feelings for Raven. Ever.

Her fingers continued their indolent path along his tautly corded muscles, playing over his bicep and the cleft of his bent elbow. His skin was enticingly warm, and she smelled the Coca-Cola on his breath. He'd grown back his mustache, still neatly trimmed, and his goatee was fashionably short, framing chiseled lips with the wicked notch in the upper one that she still found so inviting.

She was so close to him that their waistbands grazed together briefly until he shook himself of the fog of her presence, cursing her eyes.

"You mentioned adrenaline earlier. About an assault triggering your security protocol," she purred, tracing the shape of his shoulder, straining beneath his snug tee shirt and feathering over his collarbone. His flat nipples hardened at her touch and the steam teasing his lips as she leaned in closer to him, a hair's breadth away from his mouth.

"You're fucking crazy," he rasped hoarsely.

"You never minded before," she muttered, snaking her hand around his nape and twining her fingers through his short, dark hair before tugging him down to her, kissing him hard enough to bruise. He groaned into her mouth, every muscle in his body tensing before he responded in kind, opening up and devouring her hungrily. Her palms framed his face, cupping it as she tilted it at an angle to better suit her, dominating the kiss and grinding against him wantonly, craving his heat. Lean, well-muscled arms roped around her waist and allowed no escape as she sucked his lower lip between her teeth.

"Damn you," he moaned under his breath. "Why?" he pleaded, tearing her hands away, even as his body strained for more of her touch. His chest heaved as he fought to master himself. She licked her lips reflexively, capturing the taste of him, and his eyes dilated with the effect that the gesture had on him. She nuzzled him, leaning up to nibble his chin, and he groaned again, this time in utter defeat as he once again claimed her ripe mouth. His bionic hand was groping her, palming her glutes less for the purpose of a quick thrill, and more for the purpose of holding her against him, quenching his throbbing ache in the apex of her thighs, craving the softness she tried so hard to hide...his free hand tangled itself in her silky sheaves of hair and stroked her face, marveling at the satiny feel of her skin, still unlined and addictively soft. He broke the kiss, and he leaned his forehead against hers helplessly, his breathing labored.

She didn't expect his fingers to tremble as he smoothed a lock of her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"You always have to ask why," she nagged, breaking the spell as she released her grip on his, smoothing his rumpled shirt with her palms before she stepped back. They were both flushed.

"Sit down. Don't touch anything," he snapped, nodding to his work table. "And keep your cotton-pickin' fingers off my Stormtrooper," he added. He rummaged in the shelves above the refrigerator, drawing a small box that resembled a car alarm clicker from a recessed safe. He tapped it twice, and it emitted the same chirpy beep, too.

"I didn't ask to borrow your minivan, Dad," she carped playfully. That earned her a scowl.

"Hush your mouth." A rumbling could be heard throughout the suite as a door slid open in the wall that Raven hadn't noticed before, thinking the panel was just trimmed in crown molding. The door revealed a larger safe with a buttonpad combination lock and digital display. Forge tapped in three random numbers and extracted what he was looking for.

"I won't get involved, whether it's to help you or stop you. I won't promise I won't have a few surprises in store if you come back, either, Raven. Whatever path to whatever brand of hell you're tiptoeing down, lady, don't expect to take me with you."

"I've never tiptoed a day in my life." Their fingers touched as he placed the inhibitor into her palm, but he didn't linger. Chastened, she nodded to him and tucked it into her pocket.

"Godspeed."

"Yeah, yeah," she groused, sweeping out through the door this time, her spine stiff and proud. He waited until her footsteps made their way into his foyer before following her out to watch her depart.

She'd already changed guises, amusingly enough, trading her distinctive looks for blonde hair, blue eyes, and the body of an underfed supermodel. She heard his footfalls, and turned to face him as her hand twisted the knob.

"Don't miss me too much."

"Let's revisit that high colonic analogy we threw around earlier," he suggested. 

"Let's not." She wrinkled her nose in disgust before letting the door swing shut behind her.

Raven's last thought as she headed down the street toward a subway tunnel was that being on the run was lonely, even in the company of all the voices in her head.


	2. Marking Your Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone knew Mystique was on her way. Vic's got a contract to take out Raven, but he wants to settle something personal first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as much of this story as I have. I had lost the original draft of it when my previous computer died, but the very kind sneakymystique on Tumblr pointed me to an archive that still hosted the full text. I feel blessed that someone appreciated my old story enough to help me save it.

_Brooklyn, 2.5 miles from the safehouse:_

 

The surveillance van was painted white, with conspicuously red lettering on the side directing homeowners to ensure their residence was free of termites.

"Bo Peep's on the move."

"Quit calling her Bo Peep!"

"It sounds catchy," was the intern's mumbled reply as he turned up the volume on the spycam's mic, increasing the crackling from the leaves of the tree where it was perched. The lens was trained on the small, midnight blue Honda pulling away from the curb and turning into traffic without a signal. "Damn. Women drivers," he huffed.

She didn't give them much of a chase. She'd emerged from the subway tunnels in the same guise she'd left the safehouse in, and she retrieved her car from a public parking garage. No evasive maneuvers or subterfuge above and beyond synthing a fresh-faced woman who looked like the girl next door. If the girl next girl was a sociopath...

"She gets around pretty good for someone who's supposed to be dead."

"All she did was drop off the radar. No one ever found a body, just the ones she left behind."

"Then we'd better make sure she doesn't drop off of ours."

"Anyone heard from Nelson? Figured we'd catch him en route on the red line."

"Lunch hour traffic," was the bland reply. The intern heard the snap of a newspaper being opened and perused behind him as they continued stakeout.

"No, sir. His comm signal's dead."

Deep within the bowels of the subway tunnels, a man lay bleeding in the men's room, breathing his last. His neck was nearly slit through with a garrote, and the small mic on his wire was lying crushed beside him.

Elsewhere, somewhere in Tijuana:

"How long's he been here?"

"He came in about three bottles of Sauza ago."

"He's scaring away business."

"You wanna tell him to take a hike?"

After a pause, "Uh-uh."

Vic was bored. He felt several sets of eyes on him, staring and darting away every time his own flickered around to scan the dark interior. The place had been packed when he lumbered in. Now there were scant patrons lurking in the musty corners closest to the rest room and the exit. Everyone was keeping a wide berth. Pussies, he mused, tossing back another shot. The liquor burned through his nostrils, but he didn't shed a tear. He never did. Ever.

He dug a large meathook into the bowl of beer nuts and popped them one by one into his mouth, crunching them noisily and licking the salt from his lips. Using a talonlike claw, he dug a fragment of nut meats from his teeth, flashing elongated white canines.

Life had lost its gloss. As long as his had been, and as long as it was likely to be, he deserved some gloss, damn it. He missed the roar of his blood in his ears, that rush of blood lust that was more natural to him than breathing. He craved the hunt. That was how he was built. Dominance was like heroin to him. Vic wasn't the alpha male; he was the maverick wolf invading the rest of the pack, larger than life and imposing, who challenged the pack wolf just to steal its respect.

He was just contemplating heading back to the pool table to hustle some smokes from the guy taking full run of a game of eight ball – more accurately, kicking his ass and taking his smokes – when he caught the scent of a female sauntering inside. She was fresh-faced and barely legal. Smooth, golden skin gleamed under the lights when she approached the bar. She was inches away, beckoning to the bartender instead of skirting around him like every other man in the dive.

She was cunning; he caught that much in her scent. She didn't lean away from him when the bartender handed her a lemon drop martini. Vic snorted over her choice, interrupting her first sip.

"That ain't a real drink."

"I'm holding it in my hand, it's wet, and I can taste it. Makes it a real drink, doesn't it?" She demonstrated her position by downing it in one gulp, licking it from her lips before setting the glass on the counter.

"Sassy little piece, aintcha?" Amber predator's eyes studied her wickedly, indolently. She was ripe, and her smile was tempting him; he wondered if she knew the effect she was having on him, and if she'd be so smug if she did. All he had to do was get her alone, just for a minute. He remembered a dark alley behind the bar; no streetlamps, and no windows facing out toward it to offer scant light.

She crossed her arms and leaned her elbows against the counter, heedless of the filmy layers of grime. She was dressed in a snug black dress that poured over her body, slick as oil. Almond-shaped black eyes measured him as she reached for the small tray of drink garnishes, plucking a maraschino cherry by its stem. She toyed with it a moment, twirling it and giving it a thoughtful lick, darting out her pink tongue to sample its sweetness. "One of my better traits, handsome."

He huffed; ooooohhh, she was GOOD. "Ya want something from me, and it ain't my witty, sparkling conversation, sweet pea."

"Wanting something from you isn't something the folks who hired me do lightly. You're a hard man to find," she finally admitted, right before she tilted her head back and dangled the fruit over her mouth before sucking it inside. Her ripe, lusciously full red lips pursed around it, teasing it before she separated it from the stem with a small pop. It was pocketed in her cheek for a moment as she watched his reaction before she finished. He liked watching the motions of her throat, a sinuous, slender column. Just narrow enough to wrap his hands around, once she was done with her spiel.

"Who sent ya?"

"Does it matter?"

"Uh-uh," he grunted in reply. "Gonna send ya packin', if ya can still walk when I'm done with ya. Askin' for it, dressed like that. Can't promise I can control myself when ya come in here, lookin' like ya do." His voice was syrupy and husky but didn't hide the menace in his eyes. His face was hard; sharp, chiseled bone structure and a European profile were at odds with his enormous frame. He easily topped seven feet; his shoulders nearly filled the frame of any doorway he crossed. Craggy blond brows were nearly obscured by shining tangles of hair, which waved halfway down his back. Rock-solid muscles rippled and bunched beneath his disheveled clothing. His faded jeans tightly cupped him; his khaki green ribbed tank was plain, save for the gleaming silver dog tags hanging from his neck. Sandy hair covered his arms and chest in a generous mat. One filthy combat boot was propped against the rail running along the bar as she contemplated his tequila.

"I can't promise you'll even remember me when I'm gone," she shrugged.

"I ain't gonna argue that." Her words were cavalier but laced with a threat that intrigued him. "Telepath?"

"Of a sort." He tapped his temple.

"Knock yerself out."

"It doesn't work that way," and she rolled her eyes.

"What do they call ya?"

"Long gone, most of the time. But I go by Blindspot."

"Cute."

"Not any worse than Sabertooth. But here's the deal. I've got a big job lined up for big money."

"Who the fuck are they, who the fuck do they want me to kill, and why the fuck did they send you?"

"I've got a vested interest in the target being dead. So that's just icing that they tapped me to tag you." She reached into her bodice, daring his eyes to leave hers as she handed him a small device, its case still warm from its hiding place. He peered at it. It looked like a cell phone.

"Ya reachin' out and touchin' someone? They can't do any fucking better than this?"

"Check the voice mail," she offered before she turned to order another lemon drop. "Thought you might like the dirty little pictures in their, too. Looked like it was just your thing."

"Gimme one reason why I shouldn't take ya out back right now and show ya my kink."

"More money than you could ever spend," she said flatly. He could tell he was starting to get to her. "Have you ever heard of Dermafree?" His lips twisted.

"Eh...wait. That's the fucking makeup company from TV, ain't it? For folks with jacked-up skin?"

"Psoriasis."

"Gesundheit." She tsked with amused disgust.

"You saw the headlines?"

"They went outta business? Sumthin' 'bout using muties ta test out their crap?"

"No. Using mutants like us to MAKE their crap. There's a difference. And they used one mutant in particular."

"Anybody I know? An' why should I care?"

"Because you could fight the good fight for a change." He snorted. "And it's Mystique."

His hand hung halfway to his lips, sloshing tequila over the rim of the glass. The silence between them was charged; Blindspot felt that same heady anticipation mixed with dread that tingled in her spine at the first sign of storm clouds. Amber eyes bore into her, wicked slits.

"Ain't no one in the world wants that bitch dead more'n me."

"Someone in this world wants you to prove it." She held out her hand for the phone and pressed a small plate in its case. It slid back, and she extracted something small and plastic. He peered at it, amused. It was an American Express card.

"There's no limit." It also had his name on it. "They'll keep extending credit on it for the length of your contract."

"This is my price," he sneered, but his head was brimming with possibilities. He could roam wherever the road took him, without having to dirty his hands for a change.

_Maybe just once..._

A memory rose up in his mind that brought a grimace to his face and the taste of sour metal to his lips. Raven. His tormentor. His betrayer.

No, Vic didn't mind dirtying his hands.

"Don't forget to look at the pictures," she reminded him casually. She reached around his thick fingers and pressed the tiny camera phone button. The screen flashed up at him before he figured it out for himself, toggling through each shot.

Mangled bodies and damaged property almost impressed him; the style was familiar. Quick, vicious and thorough.

"She gave it a lick and a promise," he chuckled. "Ain't that just like Raven." He shook his head and went to hand her the phone. She held up her hand, stopping his attempt.

"Keep it. You'll need it. Your boss wants to introduce herself when she gets the chance."

"She does, eh?" Vic wondered what chick had the cojones to approach him with an offer like this one. "What's she want with Mystique?"

"Revenge," Blindspot replied soberly.

Vic grinned. "I'm in."

"Then I'm gone," and with that, she stretched out her hand before he could stop her and tapped his forehead with a fleeting touch.

His mind swam, and his cry was hoarse and garbled.

"Don't know whatcha did ta me...chickadee," he rasped, "but ya don't wanna piss me off...when I lose...my buzzzzzzz..." His voice tapered off, and she slumped down to the bar.

Moments later, when his head cleared, she was gone. He rubbed his head and groaned; the patrons of the bar were staring at him warily as he stood and flicked a roll of bills at the owner while he made hopeless attempts at cleaning a beer mug.

He spied a small cell phone beside him, and with a careless shrug, he tucked it into his pocket. The tequila must have been pretty good. Somewhere between when he first came in and when he finished the third bottle, he'd lost a half hour of his life.

 

~0~

 

Raven never enjoyed flying overseas. Suffering with the peasants in coach class wasn't flying; handling the controls on Xavier's private jet was better than sex.

The flatulent businessman beside her who'd snatched the window seat before she could argue with him while boarding was running his mouth about the sweet deal he'd gotten flying JetBlue. Fourteen hours. Fourteen spirit-killing, excruciating, nails-scraping-the-chalkboard hours.

She entertained herself by changing her eye color about every fifteen minutes, just to confuse him. By about the fourth time, she'd twirled her hair and cocked her head sideways, smiling innocently with perfect white teeth. Forge's words came back to haunt her. She loved synthing blondes. She'd been tempted to turn up the glam and go for "Baywatch" Pamela or Nicole, but by the time she'd crossed the threshold and removed her hat and dark glasses, she opted for Carol Brady.

Her thoughts were filled with Forge. She couldn't help it.

_Damn you, Irene,_ she fumed. Of all the men your visions showed my destiny intertwined with, _why HIM?_

Memories of the contrast between his cinnamon brown skin, stark against her indigo flesh were still fresh. She'd mocked tenderness until the first time he'd kissed her; she marked up the quiver in her gut and quickening of her pulse to weakness.

He wouldn't let her dominate him. That wasn't to say that she hadn't tried. No matter how many times she reared up triumphantly, pistoning over him and jarring him with the savage pulse and thrust of her hips, he'd disarmed her with nipping teeth and the wiry strength of arms corded with muscle, neatly pulling her beneath him again. No matter how many times she bit and scratched, she always returned to the warmth of the pulse in his neck, burying her nose and lips in it for his comforting male scent.

Always Raven. With rare exceptions, he hated her codename. Nothing about her was truly a mystery to him.

The last remnant of a pleasant dream found her waking up with his name on her lips before the seat belt lights came on.

Nelson was sloppy. They could send better operatives than that to do the job. The wire went through his jugular like butter.


End file.
